Those eyes are dangerous.

"With...?"

I shake my head. "Sorry, come again?"

The customer walks up to me. Slowly, like a panther on the prowl.

"'With.' Is that the word you were looking for?"

"I-Uh, yes. Sorry. I'm a bit out of sorts today."

"I noticed."

That snide comment immediately brings me back on solid ground.

Just who the hell does this guy think he is?

"So what can I help you with?" I say instead, my best smile on display.

The man gives me a long once-over. It makes me feel exposed. Like I couldn't hide if I wanted to. "I need a suit."

I exhale quietly under my breath. Now, this I can work with. "What kind of suit did you have in mind?"

"Three pieces, made of fabric. You've heard of those, I assume?"

Deep breaths, April. You need this job. You want this job. "Why, yes, I have heard of those. Are we shopping for any occasion in particular?"

The man gives me an odd look. "None that you'd need to make it your business to know about, Ms...." He tilts his head towards my name tag. "Ms. Flowers."

You need this job, I keep chanting in my head, like a mantra. If you stab this customer, you'll lose this job. You can't lose this job, April.

It's the only scrap of your dream you've got left.

"Just formal, then," I settle on, knuckles whitening behind my back. Then I dive into the racks.

Clothes are my kingdom. When my hands are buried in fabrics, I am in my element. I pick out three vintage jackets that look roughly the customer's size, eyeballing the measurements of his broad shoulders, and lay them on the table.

But there's one in particular that I want him to pick; one that I just know would go stunningly with those blue eyes, his black hair, his fair skin. He may be an asshole, but he isn't a bad-looking one. With that thought, I put my pick third.

Most customers will be drawn to the option in the middle. Put a cheap jacket first, a wildly expensive one third, and the costly but fairly-priced vintage one in the middle. Whenever I want to find an old-timey piece a good home, that's how I do it. Most of the time, it works like a charm.

Sometimes, however, a customer will walk in and just smell like money. While we were talking-correction: while he was insulting me and I was trying to remind myself of all the good reasons not to end up in jail at twenty-four-I sized him up just as much as he sized me up. I was just more discreet about it.

I know, for example, that his current suit is Tom Ford; that his watch is the brand-new Rolex they've been advertising nonstop in Times Square; and that his cologne is Dior Sauvage X.

A man like this would never settle for second-best.

The customer approaches the jackets. I begin to describe the first piece: "This is a 2009 Dolce & Gabbana. Midnight blue, stretch wool. Not a limited edition, but still extremely rare to find." He barely glances at it, moving on to the second before I've finished. I pick up the pace. "Versace, 1991. Embroidered black velvet, number 873 of only 1,000 pieces ever produced. Extravagant, but tastefully so. I would recommend a dove gray shirt underneath -"

"This one."

Bingo. Never fails.

"Ah, yes, the Turner." I pick it up, smoothing out the fabric to show off the colors. "Embroidered silk, anthrax gray with Han blue reflections. A pioneer work: Vuitton would only get there in the late 2010s, with its Oriental collection, but in much brighter hues. However, this piece was hand-sewn in 1983, using antique Chinese textiles for the embroidery. The pigment is 100% original."

I take his hand and run it over the fabric, guiding his fingers over the floral pattern, barely distinguishable from a simple arabesque one. That's Elias's specialty: hiding secret messages in his work.

In this one-the only floral piece in his entire collection-he hid it in the petals: forget-me-not.

It was the piece that made me fall in love with this place.

The man's breath hitches. I realize I may have forgotten personal space entirely, taking his hand like that, but what comes out of his mouth is not a reprimand. For once.

"Why would you keep this out here?" he murmurs, something close to awe in his voice. "Where everyone can touch it?"

"Pretty things are made to be touched." At some point-I don't know when or how-his hand took over. Now, it's guiding mine as it moves across the design. "To be used." His skin is warm; I don't know why that surprises me, but it does. I guess I thought that the man with icy eyes would be just as cool to the touch. "Nothing this beautiful should ever be left behind glass."

He looks at me. At my hand, still on his. Belatedly, I realize how wildly inappropriate the air feels suddenly. We're close-when did that happen?

"Would you, um..." I mumble something incoherent and pry my fingers gingerly from his grasp with sheer force of will. "Would you like to browse some mo -"

"I'll try it on."

I blink. "Pardon me?"

"I said I'll try it on." His gaze on me is even, steady, but there's an undercurrent of impatience in his voice that I don't want to test. "Lead the way."

And, God help me, I do.

APRIL

Update: the jacket looks amazing.

I watch it shine under the changing room's lights, the embroidery perfectly matched to the blue of my customer's eyes, and I feel a tingly burst of pride.

I'm this close to pumping my fist in the air, but I restrain myself. The man has a glare that could melt steel, and I'd love to not feel that heat again quite yet.

Instead, I keep it professional. "So, what do we think?"

"It's a bit loose," the man comments, scrunching up his face in distaste.

"That it is," I agree. "Luckily, it's an easy fix." I walk up to him with my trusty tape measure. "May I?"

He gives me a curt nod.

"Jacket off, please," I tell him, positioning myself behind his back. I help him out of the garment and hang it carefully inside the changing room. Then, tape measure in hand, I mount the stepstool.

But even when I'm elevated, I have to rise up on my tiptoes to reach him.

This man's built like a tree-strong, lean, tall. If I can just reach a little higher, though...

"Should I hunch?" the man drawls.

Dammit. I keep forgetting about the stupid mirror. Has he been watching me struggle all this time? "No need," I reply, still straining on my tiptoes like a ballerina.

I can feel the heat radiating off his body. It definitely isn't helping me sweat any less. Between the freckles and how red my face must be, I probably look like a strawberry right now.

"There," I say with relief. "Done."

"Where's the rest?"

The rest? It takes me a moment to grasp what he means. "Of the suit?"

"Yes," the man replies, that familiar impatience ringing out again. "Unless you were planning to send me out there in nothing but the jacket."

I hastily delete that particular mental image. Not because it's unpleasant-far from it, actually. That's the problem.

I won't be that tailor. I won't ogle my customers, no matter how handsome or ripped or-

"So?"

Right, the rest. "The jacket's a unique piece," I explain with a gulp. "We can have matching trousers and waistcoat made on a custom order. The jacket's our very own Mr. Turner's work, so the integration will be seamless." It's easy to lose myself in work. If nothing else, it's a welcome distraction from the man's gaze. "We'll take the rest of your measurements and schedule a fitting to make sure everything's the perfect size."

"Hm," the man says.

And, for a while, that's all he says.

It strikes me suddenly how alone we are. The building is hushed like only quiet tailor shops can be. The windows are far on the other side of the room. There'd be no one here to watch if I knelt down from the stepstool and...

"Well then?" he demands eventually, making me blink in confusion.

"Pardon me?"

He doesn't even try to hide the eye roll. Asshole. "Aren't you going to measure me?"

"Oh, that's-" I swallow hard. "We can put you on the calendar, for sure. It's just that Mr. Turner has already gone home for the day, so -"

"You do it."

I'd really, really rather not. "I, um..."

Wrong answer. "I'm a busy man, Ms. Flowers," the man snaps, not bothering to disguise his annoyance. "Either we get this done quickly, or we won't be getting it done at all. Am I making myself clear?"

For one moment, I reconsider prison.

Then I reconsider it again. I put my best smile back on and stuff my hands in my pockets. "Certainly, sir. Let me just get my notebook."

I hurry out of the changing room, counting down from ten in the process. What a huge, insufferable, selfish-

"Should I undress?" the man calls out from the changing room.

"No!" I squeal, perhaps a bit too loudly. "I mean, uh, no. There's no need." And then, because there's no blood left for my brain, apparently, I add, "Thank you, though."

Silence.

I bury my face in my hands. "What the fuck?" I mutter to myself, burning to the tips of my ears.

Then I yank my godforsaken notebook and pen out from under a mountain of tags and tickets and make my way back into the devil's den.

Thus begin the most painfully awkward ten minutes of my life.

Get it over with, I coach myself again and again. Just get it over with. This'll all be over soon. I take mystery man's measurements from head to toe-literally. He's gonna need shoes, too, so that's important.

Most of all, though, he's gonna need pants.

When I kneel in front of him, touching my tape measure to his belt and looping it all the way around his groin, I wish for instant, sudden death. Is it possible to die from mortification?

No, clearly not. Otherwise, June would be writing my obituary right now. April Flowers, Diligent Employee, Died in the Line of Duty. Leaves Behind a Bereaved Best Friend, a Half-Blind Cat, and a Sexual Harassment Lawsuit.

Normally, I'd be making small talk to break the tension. Cracking jokes, even. But this guy's like a statue: unmoving, unspeaking, unblinking.

That last part especially is messing with my head. Whenever I find myself glancing up, there he is, blue eyes burning a hole in me from above. Looking down on me.

How easily I can picture his big hand sliding into the roots of my hair, my hands sliding up his -

"All done!" I blurt out, jumping to my feet. "Will you, uhh-will you be needing a shirt as well?"

The usual glare ensues. "Unless you -"

"Figured," I cut in with a nervous chuckle. "I'll go grab it for you. I have just the thing."

I disappear as quickly as my feet can carry me.

In the shop, I take a few seconds more than my task would warrant to catch my breath. My head's spinning, and I'm afraid low blood pressure has nothing to do with it. God, this is all June's fault. My best friend is always saying I need to "get out there," need to get myself on Tinder, need to get myself some that. No wonder my mind's in the gutter.

"Ms. Flowers?" an irritated voice calls from the changing room. "Are you sewing my shirt from scratch?"

"Coming!" I call back, instantly cringing from the word choice.

"In the gutter" might be a step up from where my brain currently is, actually.

I bring him a sleek gray shirt. "It might seem counterintuitive, to wear something this dark underneath," I explain, holding out the piece to him. "But trust me. You'll thank me later."

The man frowns. After a beat, however, he takes the shirt. "I guess we'll see."

I leave the changing room, giving him privacy and giving me permission to breathe again. As soon as I'm out, I loose a big exhale, letting my shoulders slump.

"What a day," I croak, walking around the shop to gather myself.

That's when I see it. In the accessories section, rolled up neatly in its display case: a tie. Cornflower blue with indigo details.

It's a perfect match.

I run excitedly back into the changing room, forgetting everything. When clothes are involved, I tend to forget about the world. "Sir, I think this would look great..."

I did say forgetting everything, right? Including the purpose of changing rooms.

I don't knock. That's my first mistake. I just swing the door wide open, picturing that beautiful tie framed by the lapels of Elias's masterpiece -

"... on you."

And my half-naked customer glares at me.

APRIL

That's when I make my second mistake: ogling.

I can't help it. All my Good Girl™ resolutions crumble into a pathetic heap once my gaze falls over the stranger's eight-pack. And I do mean eight-pack. Two, four, six, eight. Taut skin over bulging pecs, a sculpted V-cut barely concealed by his unbuttoned pants, and a washboard I could see myself switching careers for.

I must be sweating away every drop of self-respect, because suddenly, I'm wondering if this guy's in the market for a laundry maid. Uniform up for negotiation.

Get it together, girl. Get it- "Should I get you a picture?"

I snap back to reality. God, can this day get any more embarrassing? "I am so sorry, sir." Covering my face with both hands, I make a belated attempt at respecting my customer's privacy.

Which would probably go over better if I hadn't just gotten a full frontal of his happy trail.

"That was inexcusable. I wasn't thinking."

"You were thinking of something, alright."

I grit my teeth. "I promise I wasn't." Grovel, April. Just grovel. "I just... I saw this tie outside and I..."

Suddenly, the tie slips from my grasp. I panic, thinking I must've let it fall. So I open my eyes again -

"Pretty little thing."

And he's right in front of me.

I swallow. I know he's talking about the tie, but the way his ice-blue eyes trail over my frame makes it difficult to remember that. "Smooth," he adds, thumb drawing circles into the fabric, his gaze still fixed on me. "Silk?"

Close. When did he get so close? "Uhh-yes. Mulberry."

"Finest there is."

I nod frantically. Maybe I can still salvage this. "The hue is very similar to the embroidery on the jacket. It would also, uhh..." Bring

out your criminally blue eyes. "Compliment your skin color."

The man hums. I start to sigh with relief: shop talk has never failed to save my ass... "And yours, I'd say."

... until now.

His hand circles my wrist. Trapped in that wide palm, my arm looks like a chopstick. It occurs to me that he could snap me like a twig if he wanted to. It occurs to me a moment later that some part of me very much likes that concept.

He lifts my wrist up and holds the tie against it. "Mhmm. Perfection."

I feel my face go very, very red. "Oh, well, you should really... try it on yourself," I stammer, trying to draw back. "Skin tones can be... deceptive. I'll leave you to it- "

"Not a chance, Ms. Flowers."

He grabs my other arm, lightning-quick. How in the hell is he so fast? That's not the kind of speed that goes with that amount of muscle. Sure, he isn't steroid-ripped, but still...

Before I can shake myself out of my reverie, the stranger's got both my wrists bound.

That's what snaps me back to reality. Customers with a poor sense of personal space? I've had those. Customers who speak like a phone sex hotline? Rare, but also not unheard of. In my line of work, there's no such thing as too weird. Whatever the client wants, you go along with it, and you do it with a smile.

But no client's ever tied me up before.

"What are you doing?" I squeak, doing my best not to let my voice crack. I test my bindings: the tie's not looped too tight. I could break out of it, if I wanted to.

"I should be the one asking that," the man rumbles, pressing me up against the changing room wall. I take a step back, but that's all I'm allowed. Soon, there is nowhere left to go. "What are you doing?"

I'm suddenly very aware of how charged the air feels. How in the hell did I miss it until now? Am I so used to indulging my customers' every whim that I couldn't tell I was being cornered in my own place of work while someone cranked the sexual tension to an eleven out of ten and broke off the knob?

Apparently, yes.

"I'm... helping you?" I venture.

"Wrong." The man's breath is on my cheek now, his cologne overpowering in the small space. He smells like pine and ozone-the darkening sky before a thunderstorm. "You're denying yourself." "Pardon me?"

"You've wanted me ever since I stepped foot in here," he states, matter-of-factly. "That's why you 'accidentally' walked in on me, right?"

"Listen up, James Bondage," I snap, feeling my hackles raising. So much for being polite no matter what. "I don't know what you're insinuating, but- "

"Oh, you know exactly what I'm insinuating." He sinks his face into my neck and breathes, long and deep. "Are you really trying to tell me you weren't looking earlier, Ms. Flowers? Gawking?"

I squirm, but it's not out of fear. More like shame: what must I smell like after such a long, hard day of work? My own perfume's bound to have evaporated by now. No dollar store mix lasts that long.

But that's not even in the top fifty of things I should be worrying about. What with the huge, half-naked stranger looming over me and all. "I was just... surprised," I croak out.

"You saw something you liked. You took it."

"I didn't take anything."

"Not yet," the stranger concedes. "But things are made to be touched. Aren't they? Isn't that what you said?"

"That's not what I meant!"

"You want me." He runs his free hand down my neck. Touching me. As if I'm made to be... "And that's a good thing. Because, you see, Ms. Flowers..."

His blue eyes meet mine.

"I want you, too."

The revelation shouldn't shock me, but it does. Because, out of all the boyfriends I've ever had; all the strangers I gave a chance to in the dark, long before I decided it wasn't worth the trouble -

No one has ever said those words to me.

And then, as if wanting to prove it, the stranger closes the last of the space between us.

I gasp. There's no mistaking the hardness pressing against my thigh, just like there's no mistaking how badly it's affecting me. Through my thin satin blouse and lace bra, my nipples are visibly standing to attention.

I pray he hasn't noticed the state of me, but it's a short-lived hope. I can see him looking, licking his lips like a wolf cornering its prey.

"That's right," he rumbles, low and dark. "It appears you've managed to bring me something to my liking after all. And I never leave something I like on display."

"I'm not for sale," I say through gritted teeth.

"And I'm not offering to pay." He brings his face even closer to mine. One miscalculation, one little twitch, and our lips would meet. "Are you going to leave what you want on display?"

He waits.

He waits.

I don't say no.

So he takes that for exactly the answer it is: Claim me.

I kiss him.

That's my third and final mistake. I surge forward and claim his lips with mine, dragging him the rest of the way down. I use my teeth; I'm not afraid. I want this. And wasn't he the one going on and on about taking the things you want?

For once, I'm apparently right.